


The Fire in Which We Burn

by dragonnan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Death (off screen), BAMF Anthea (Sherlock), Developing Relationship, Domestic Violence, Gen, Molly Hooper Needs a Hug, POV Molly Hooper, Physical Abuse, Protective Greg Lestrade, Protective John Watson, Protective Mycroft Holmes, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Romantic Angst, Romantic Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Stalking, everyone is protective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24925234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: Nobody ever imagines they'll fall in love with someone who would hurt them.  Molly, of course, has been hurt by Sherlock more than once - cutting words, dismissal... funny that "I love you" was one of the worst things to spill from his lips.All of that, however, pales compared to what she'd experienced during Sherlock's time Away.OrWhat, exactly, had caused Molly to have such a bad day when Sherlock had called her?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	The Fire in Which We Burn

**Author's Note:**

> So this story had been intended as a one-shot only. By the time I reached the end of what, now, is merely chapter 1, I realized I have SO much more to do! Essencially my need to answer my own questions has simply created a whole lot more work.

“ _I just wanted to let you know that... well, Dennis is scheduled to be released this afternoon. I didn't find out myself until twenty minutes ago. I know he was meant to be in longer but... well we both know the justice system is a joke. Listen... call me, alright? Let me know... I'm here if you need me, yeah? Christ. Just, look after yourself, Molly. I'll talk to you soon.”_

Molly hung over her sink long after Greg's message had ended.

She'd started dating him during Sherlock's two years gone. She hadn't been looking for anyone. With Sherlock out there, alone... she had been waiting, she supposed. Waiting for him to come back... with no idea when or... if. She hadn't had to act miserable; watching her friends in agony; watching John fall to pieces... it had shredded her. Once Sherlock had left Barts that last night; secreted away with his brother in the darkness, she'd known there was every chance that he could be...

So she'd begun accepting the occasional male attention; sporadic though it was. She'd gone out for drinks a few times – though she'd mostly preferred the company of her friends. Less pressure. She'd met Dennis Bain six months after the Fall. He'd been a bartender at the pub a few streets away from Barts. He'd been funny and charming and had flirted endlessly. Dark hair, blue eyes, and Molly could admit she had a type... She'd gone home with them after their second date.

It hadn't been until three weeks in that she'd had the first notion anything wasn't completely daisies and strawberry wine. It wasn't anything alarming like thumbs in the crisper or invading the privacy of her flat to shower the blood out of his hair, no. It had been the way he'd grabbed her wrist, one night, when she'd reached for her ringing mobile. They'd been in bed and things had been heating up a bit. However, it wasn't unusual to get a call from Barts, even during her off hours. The pathology lab was perpetually understaffed and Molly, as senior pathologist, was often required to put in extra shifts. Which, truthfully, she didn't mind as the added income had helped pay for her flat. However, when her mobile had chirped its light tune and her hand had reached, Dennis had gripped her wrist tightly enough to leave a pale band of red in her flesh...

“ _Leave it. It can wait.”_

_Molly tugged at his grip; her heart still hammering as his lips resumed sucking at her throat._

“ _I can't; that's the ring for Barts. I told you they sometimes call...”_

“ _I said leave it!” Dennis sat up, then, taking her other wrist and pushing her hands above her head. The quick dart of alarm, however, was soothed as he snickered – releasing his hold. “Ah, go on then. Just don't come back stinking like a cadaver.”_

_The body had been... disturbing. More than most, at any rate. A young woman; half her face scorched by acid. While Molly had been scraping her nails she'd wondered about the mind that could do this – destroy someone so completely... What sort of rage would lead a person towards such violence. She'd look back on that, frequently, in the months to follow._

The first time Dennis struck her had been one month into their relationship. They'd been talking; standing in her kitchen while the kettle boiled. What they'd been talking about she couldn't recall but at one point Toby had slunk through the room. He'd always been leery of Dennis and tended to hide in the storage cabinet off the loo whenever Dennis visited. He must have been hungry, though, as he'd made for his bowl. Molly was never quite clear of the sequence that followed. Dennis had made a teasing lunge towards Toby – one of the reasons the cat had avoided him in the first place. Molly couldn't remember if she'd chastised Dennis or if Toby had reacted first but it had resulted in a hard bite and a line of scratches down Dennis's right hand. He'd grabbed a mug from the counter and, fearing he'd planned to throw it at her pet, Molly had shoved against his chest. And he'd slapped her. She'd tasted blood while he'd begun apologizing. She'd lightly pressed her fingers against the swelling bruise on her cheek while he'd begun explaining – insomnia, rowdy customers, too much wine earlier...

She'd asked him to leave. The next day she'd broken things off.

He'd pleaded with her. He'd sent a huge bouquet of tiger lilies to the morgue. He'd slipped a love letter beneath the door to her flat. But it was the very expensive basket of cat toys and treats that had finally worn her down. Probationary, of course. God help her... No nights over. No intimacy. They had met as cautious friends in public places; lunch twice – dinner once.

And it had been nice. For about a week.

And then, one morning, he'd met her at her door on her way out to work.

Her head understood that victims of domestic violence frequently blamed themselves. She _knew_ that. Her head absolved her but it hadn't stop her heart from digging for an excuse. There had to be a reason... something she'd done...

It had been Greg who'd taken the call, later that afternoon. She hadn't rung for help, no, though she'd been very aware that someone had done so in her stead. It was the first time she'd really sensed the greater Presence that had seen fit to watch over her along with that nebulous oversight of John, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg... the people who _mattered_. She'd been ashamed... wondering what Sherlock would think of her if he could see her now; battered and sniveling in her yellow cotton johnney.

Six months was the maximum allowance but Dennis had only been required to serve two. His first night out, he'd visited Molly's flat. She hadn't been home; double homicide. She'd arrived back; knackered and wanting nothing more than a shower and her bed...

She'd found Toby in the center of her duvet. His neck had been...

An additional six months; whether beating a woman or beating a cat the magistrate had clearly seen no difference. Dennis had gone back to prison. Molly had buried Toby in the garden and wept in the shower until the water had gone cold.

It had been in the third month of Dennis's sentence that Molly had met Tom. Introduced through friends, at a birthday party, and not even the ones from work; which was an added bonus, all things considered.

Of _course_ she'd seen it.

She'd even giggled about it with Meena; those curls, the coat, the scarf... But there had been a pang, as well. In manner Tom was nothing like... _him_. She hadn't known if that made it better or worse. Tom was awkward. Tom was hesitant. Tom was soft spoken. Tom was mad about sports – any sort of sports, really, but particularly football. He also was hopelessly nonmusical; could barely struggle through the birthday song though he was game to try and easily the loudest of the bunch. At the end of the evening he'd offered his number, “you know, just in case”. She'd taken the number out several times, that evening – until the edges of the paper had frayed and crinkled.

That night she'd sobbed in her bed until her tears had run dry.

The next day, fingers playing with the slip of paper he'd given her, she'd rung him.

Dating Tom had been amazingly easy. Regular dinners, game nights with his friends who accepted her among them; by turns fascinated and comfortably teasing at her profession. And the sex was spectacular. She'd hated to label anything as overly saccharine – bliss was a word she had mostly scrubbed from her vocabulary. However, those first 5 weeks with him had been... better than average.

And then she'd found the hastily written mobile number in his trousers.

Of course, it had to be innocent; surely. Probably a client. Or a friend, or...

But for that steady baritone that had intruded in the back of her mind; ' _what client jots down their number on a cocktail napkin? From a club you've never been?'_

It had been only the once, he'd insisted. Too much beer, he'd known her in uni, he'd been horrified at what he'd done...

The flowers had been binned.

The chocolates had been returned – each one cleanly sliced in half with the contents evacuated.

But then he'd introduced her to Alistair. Brown and white. A mess of curls and kisses. Hers; whether she took him back or not. She'd been smitten. And... she'd forgiven him. And she'd wondered about this pattern she'd developed. Where some would see strength others would see weakness and meanwhile she'd just wanted something normal. Something real.

One month after this, Dennis had been released and was out on license. Tom knew, of course. Certainly _Others_ knew, as well – Molly could hardly miss the posh black car parked on her street every day. Though, she suspected, that was rather the point. She'd wondered if Dennis would be made to “disappear” on her account. She'd found this deeply unsettling. She'd been taken aback by her own relief to learn he'd found a job at a pub in Croydon.

After a few weeks she'd stopped looking over her shoulder. She'd continued ignoring the presence of black cars until she'd realized she hadn't seen one in well over three days. She'd been all at once relieved and bereft.

A week later, when Tom had asked her to move in with him, she'd said yes.

And then came moving day...

_Molly had been never more grateful for her disinterest in shopping than when it came to packing up her possessions. Meena and some other work friends had helped for a few hours. Greg had even stopped in, briefly, and managed to fill a box with a mismatched assortment of teacups, candles, and towels before he'd been called away once more. Molly had found herself pleading the open air for a homicide – she was so tired of packing newspaper around dishes – how did she have so many dishes when she lived alone?_

_She'd been expecting Tom that afternoon so she wasn't surprised at the light rap at the doorframe. Arms loaded with the last of her dishes, she merely yelled from the kitchen; “door's open!” before settling her burden on the counter. Damn, she'd already chipped one. She rubbed her thumb across the damage as the door opened and shut at her back. She turned as Tom approached._

“ _Molly...”_

_Only he wasn't Tom._

_Molly couldn't remember grabbing her mobile but she'd already thumbed her speed dial before Dennis had taken another step._

“ _You need to leave. You can't be here, Dennis!” Not the least of which he was violating his probation._

_His hands were upraised in a manner that may have been intended as calming. She wanted to throw a chair at him._

“ _I know. I just... I need you to know that wasn't me. That guy you were with. That was never who I really was.” That charming and disarming brogue no longer worked any magic other than horror._

_Molly put another six feet and a table between them; her phone against her ear. “Yes, I need you to send someone to my flat right away.”_

“ _Molly- Molly, just, would you talk to me? And would you put the damn phone down!”_

_He had advanced around the table and Molly darted to the other side before bolting for the door. He was on her in moments; arms wrapping around her middle. She got one arm free, however, and slammed in back into his gut hard enough to loosen his hold. Loosen but not break, unfortunately. With her momentum thrown forward there was nothing but his grip on her left wrist to stop her fall and as her arm extended sharply back something in her shoulder gave with sickening snap. She screamed as electric pain bolted down her limb. Dennis used the moment to reestablish his grip and pull her against his chest._

“ _I'm sorry – but that was your fault – you know that, right? I just wanted to talk and you over-reacted, you always do this. If would would just fucking listen to me this wouldn't keep happening.”_

_Molly twisted; shoving at him and, finally, dragging her nails down his wrist. He shoved her away with a shout; his face going ugly a second before he swung. Molly ducked away but was hampered by the pain in her shoulder and his hand impacted directly on the damaged joint._

_She lost time for a while. She was aware of shouting and the sounds of hard soled shoes. And then someone knelt beside her and Molly groaned and rolled her head to squint at the form demanding her attention._

“ _My apologies, Miss Hooper, that we were not able to arrive with greater expedience.”_

_She blinked several times before confirming that, yes, Mycroft Holmes himself was in her flat. More than that, he was resting his hand between her shoulder blades with gentle pressure, almost... comforting._

_Medical personnel were next to appear and Molly soon found herself being wheeled out to an ambulance. Mycroft had vanished, once more, and Molly's skittering brain questioned if she'd truly even seen him._

_The expedience at which she was seen to had all of the trappings of Mycroft's intervention. Within minutes of her arrival at hospital she was taken to an exam room where she was soon diagnosed with a subluxation. A frustrating injury which would require a sling for a few weeks but certainly not as bad as she'd feared. After the pain medication settled into her system the doctor was able to perform a closed reduction to set the joint back into place._

_She was sent home with a prescription and the aforementioned sling with orders to stay home and recover for a few days._

_It was maddening._

_Even with Tom available to see to her every need, without complaint and with very obvious concern, she felt wired with the need to do something. She understood why Sherlock had always found inactivity unbearable._

_Still, Tom did what he could to entertain her. Wisely, he opted to get take away rather than attempt any more cooking adventures. He also took the opportunity to encourage her sweet tooth – regularly bringing home decadent little tarts or sweet croissants; Molly was certain she gained at least four pounds during her convalescence._

_After two weeks, the sling came off. Two days later, Tom strolled with her around Kew Gardens, both of them admiring the abundance of flowers and lush greenery. When they made their way inside, Tom guided them to the Waterlily House – the moist air bringing a flush to their skin. Molly was bending near the water for a closer look at some of the flowering lily pads when Tom placed a hand on her wrist._

_He stammered – face gone more pink than the temperature should have caused... and there was a small, black box, in his hands..._

Molly had never quite known what had compelled her to say yes to the ring. It had felt odd on her hand – heavy and awkward. When she wasn't rubbing at the stiff pain lingering in her shoulder she would find herself spinning the ring around her finger – the small stones catching the light. She had taken to leaving it home when she went to work – impractical anyhow as it tended to catch on her gloves.

She'd been someone's fiance' for three days when, opening the door to her locker, she'd spotted someone behind her in the mirror. Instant fight or flight had poured adrenaline through her limbs and she'd nearly grabbed for her keys, pathetic defense that they were, when she'd seen those dark curls and that oddly shy smile and...

There had been a moment where she'd wanted to embrace him; a moment where, she was almost certain, he had wanted to be embraced. But it had passed with the suddenly intense gaze – that almost unnatural knowing that usually led to rapid-fire deductions. She'd braced, actually, for his cool evaluation of her last two years. Only... he hadn't.

“ _Have you been well?”_

_Molly tugged her sleeves over her wrists – that same nervous habit she'd thought she'd lost long ago. “M'alright. Can't complain. Have you... Are you... okay?”_

_His face had done something complex – though only recognizable, she realized, to those who knew him quite well. What he said, though, was, “Never better.”_

_Only she'd seen the faint flakes of dried blood on his upper lip. The red flush of bruising on the bridge of his nose and just visible beneath the shadow of his collar – above his scarf. So he'd spoken to John, then. But she didn't ask. Just as he hadn't asked about her shoulder or why she'd seemed so fearful before knowing it was him at her back._

“ _Would you... can I get you anything? I think there's some tea left in the employee lounge. It isn't very good but its hot and there's a sleeve of Jaffa cakes in the cupboard...”_

“ _No.” Sherlock clasped his hands before him; his fingers wrapped tight around one another. “It's time I returned to Baker Street. I haven't...” and then his face did that thing again and Molly gave in to the impulse she'd shuttered, earlier, wrapping her arms about him. It was a very, very long moment before she felt his own arms circle her shoulders._

“ _I'm so glad you're home.” she whispered._

_Sherlock said nothing – she'd wondered, afterward, if he, perhaps, hadn't been able. Five minutes later he had gone. Without the lingering scent of him – wool and tobacco – she'd have nearly thought he hadn't been there at all._

The world had known Sherlock had returned well before Molly had come to terms with it herself. Just a few days later she had been trailing after him around London – tablet in hand and realizing this was something, once upon a time, she'd idly daydreamed of doing. She'd always been fascinated by his work and no less so for seeing the methods involved; the actual _work_ employed in his work. It had been flattering, this gift of his. But she had also felt... sad. As though they'd been saying farewell to something precious. Something fragile.

Months had passed. Sherlock and John had resumed their friendship and it was as though nothing had changed. But something had. It had. Sherlock had been... different. There had been times when he'd seemed so terribly lost... so sad. And then, at other times, he'd seemed the same as he'd always been. And yet the changes that Molly had noted most of all had been his willingness to share more of himself. He'd been softer, around the edges. Kinder. Gentle, even. She also been informed, during this time, that Dennis had been sentenced to four years; the maximum allowable for his offense. She'd been assured that Sherlock wouldn't know. It hadn't mattered, after all. And there had been no reason to tell him.

And then things had begun moving too quickly. John and Mary's upcoming wedding, being asked to stand as Mary's Chief Bridesmaid – after being blindsided by the fact that Mary had considered her as her closest friend. Before long the day of the wedding had been upon them.

And then she had found the letter.

Hand written and who hand wrote letters anymore? And yet the reality of that paper in hand, covered in ink with all of the smudges and nearly crossed out mistakes intact; they had given it weight. Importance. Like a declaration or some other major legal document. “Henceforth We the Underwritten, Upon Pain of Death, Do Attest Ourselves to be an Unfaithful Bastard”. She'd wanted to crush it. To burn it. To tear it to shreds. She'd folded it carefully and had slipped it back into Tom's jacket pocket. She had, however, taken some dull pleasure in running it through the wash with the rest of his laundry. If she'd accidentally used bleach instead of detergent well, mistakes happened. She'd wished that small act of vindication had felt less like ash in her mouth.

They'd gone to the wedding and she'd made every attempt to carry on as though nothing were fundamentally different between them.

But for the fork. She'd refused to apologize for the fork.

Later, she'd wonder if Tom hadn't realized she'd known.

By the following day she no longer wore his ring.

Two months after that, she was slapping Sherlock Holmes after he'd tested positive for more substances than she'd cared to see outside of a cadaver.

Seven months later, Mary was dead.

One year after that, Molly had received a phone call from Greg Lestrade.

On the same day, when Sherlock Holmes tearing her heart out, had been the least of her problems.

Because, just prior to that baffling and agonizing phone call from the consulting detective, one that had left the last of her mental resources in tatters, she'd had a far worse conversation.

Because, in this area, Molly had long resigned herself to being profoundly unlucky. Because, with a history that had included dating the world's most dangerous criminal, something like this barely rated.

Because the charges had been overturned.

There was nothing they could do.

And Dennis Bain was a free man.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not specifically meant as a romance in any sort of strict sense. I am, though, a HUGE fan of yearning and angst so expect plenty of that!


End file.
